


nothing but trouble wherever you burn

by Odaigahara



Series: Whumptober 2020 Plus [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Branding, Gen, Impersonation, Pre-Canon, Protective Deceit | Janus Sanders, Revenge, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Whumptober 2020, includes orange side as wrath and also a huge jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: Day 14: Branding*The real Virgil is asleep, or ensconced enough in his room that he won’t be coming out either way. Janus’s version of him slips through the Dark Side like the shadow of a cloud, wandering farther through the Dark Side’s labyrinth of recursive apartments until he senses the presence of another Side.Janus sits on the couch and brings his legs up to his chest. He closes his eyes and breathes, slow like Virgil after a panic attack, doing his best to paint a vulnerable picture.Virgil is alone,it says.He's unguarded, already nervous, the perfect target.The best part of any trap is setting the bait.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders
Series: Whumptober 2020 Plus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954141
Comments: 26
Kudos: 147





	nothing but trouble wherever you burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parallelmonsoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parallelmonsoon/gifts).



> TW's at end of chapter.
> 
> Thank you to Parallelmonsoon for beta reading!

Virgil’s guise slips over Janus like a sheath over a sword. The sharpest and coldest parts of him are hidden from view, made placid and defenseless by a duller coating; his eyes darken to black, skin bleaching with foundation and soot smearing under his eyes. 

Virgil wears mascara and doesn’t admit it. Virgil’s hoodie has ten tiny patches, uneven seams where he mends it smooth, gives it the lie of being untouched. Virgil’s breathing is shallow, shoulders hunched down, heart rabbit-quick in his chest. He’s defense under the guise of attack, a black widow spinning its tangled web where it hopes no predator will reach.

Janus feels colder, wearing his face. He half expects his breath to condense in front of his mouth.

The real Virgil is asleep, or ensconced enough in his room that he won’t be coming out either way. Janus’s version of him slips through the Dark Side like the shadow of a cloud, wandering farther through the Dark Side’s labyrinth of recursive apartments until he senses the presence of another Side.

Janus sits on the couch and brings his legs up to his chest. He closes his eyes and breathes, slow like Virgil after a panic attack, doing his best to paint a vulnerable picture.

 _Virgil is alone_ , it says. _He's unguarded, already nervous, the perfect target._

The best part of any trap is setting the bait. Despite the gravity of the situation, Janus feels a curl of satisfaction when the other Side draws closer, seething with tangible contempt.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Wrath drawls.

Janus affects Virgil’s signature glower and rasps, “Fancy’s not the word _I_ would use. Is there a reason you’re talking to me?”

“You’re in my spot," the other Side snaps. Janus itches with the need to point out the lie.

He stands up as sarcastically as possible, keeping his shoulders hunched. “Whatever. Not like we don’t have a _thousand identical couches_ , but if it floats your boat, sure. You can have this one.” 

Wrath’s glare deepens. Janus recognizes the eyes of a predator whose prey is acting differently and says, more nervous, “Seriously. I’m not- trying to pick a fight, okay? I’m going.”

“No, you’re not,” Wrath says, a cruel statement of fact, and Janus freezes. The feeling coursing through him is _rage_ , throttled back so Wrath won’t sense it, but he lets his sudden paleness imply terror, instead. Wrath curls his lips into a smile.

All the worst and cruelest parts of Thomas in one place. Convenient, perhaps, if they didn’t all have to deal with him- and if anger weren’t such a useful emotion divorced from the rest. Janus used to wonder if he could induce enough conflict in Wrath for a split.

The question is irrelevant, now. This is where Virgil would choose either fight or flight, and Janus is close to the door. He bolts, shoes slapping against the carpet, and Wrath slams him into the wall, blacking out his vision with the impact. Janus has to fight to keep his disguise.

He scrambles upright, but Wrath is already in front of him, blocking his way. “Go ahead, _Virgil_ ,” he breathes. “Make my fucking day.”

Janus thinks of bruises on Virgil’s neck and wrists and ribs, times he’s flinched from touch and made excuses for his shakiness. The confirmation- not that Wrath has been hurting him, which Janus knows by now, but that Virgil is so cowed by it that Wrath expects him to cooperate at a _word-_ shifts him, locks a course of action into place.

Janus is Self-Preservation. He’s meant to protect every Side, with the unwritten expectation that the parts of Thomas’s mind should all cooperate to some degree- but Wrath has become an outlier. He’s become a _problem_ , one that can’t be solved or avoided, and Janus can’t afford to keep thinking of him as someone to be helped.

There are ways to keep a function without having to deal with the Side that represents it. Janus knows them, has lived with the whispers of instinct in the back of his mind since Thomas was a child. He’s the one who polices the others, however much the Light Sides despise his role. He’s what keeps Thomas _stable._

If he can’t override the instincts that tell him to protect each Side, he’ll never be able to go through with it. He has to be Stability before Self-Love, and that takes effort. He knows, in the same subliminal way that he knew what to do when he first met Virgil, that it will take a great deal of shock.

It will take a great deal of _pain_. Janus steels himself against the thought, letting contempt fill in the cracks fear is making in his resolve, and says, weaker, “Please just leave me alone.”

“Thomas could’ve cussed that guy out,” Wrath snarls, unmoving. “He could’ve punched him before he knew what was happening.”

“He would’ve gotten arrested,” Janus says, because he agreed with Virgil’s opinion at the time, can remember it easily. “Or the guy would’ve hit _back_. I’m not gonna let Thomas get his ass kicked just ‘cause he couldn’t hold his _temper-”_

Wrath raises a hand, and Janus cuts off with a flinch. “I’m just doing my job,” he says, shrinking back. The sight would make any of the Light Sides falter, might even give Remus pause, but Wrath only rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, by not letting me do mine,” he snaps. “Do you have any idea how much that _fucking_ burns?”

“Do you really think I _care?_ Thomas is more important than your feelings. If you really wanted to _help_ him-”

“I _am_ helping him!” Wrath snarls. “It’s just you getting in the way, every damn fucking time. It’s like you forget what I keep telling you.”

Janus makes himself cringe back. “I'm not trying to pick a fight,” he says, pleading, and feels the other Side go vicious and intent. He can _taste_ the justifications he’s making to himself. Something he didn’t consider before that he’s considering now- that Wrath is having to _rationalize_ , weaving layers of denial so he can tell himself it’s the right course of action.

Wrath is convincing himself that Virgil _deserves it_.

Janus crushes a shiver of fear. 

“I get the feeling you need a reminder,” Wrath sneers, and this time when Janus moves to run there’s a hard grip on his wrist, holding him in place. His heart leaps into his throat.

_“Wrath-”_

“Don’t even try." The other Side's fingers tighten enough to hurt when he tries to pull away. “You really think Deceit cares enough about _you_ to stop me? I bet he’d thank me for shutting you up.”

The universe goes very dim, for a second. Janus’s thoughts skip a beat, going over Wrath’s words with a fine-toothed comb, scrabbling for alternate meanings.

_He’d thank me for shutting you up.  
_

Wrath says it like a familiar refrain. Like something he expects Virgil to _believe_.

Janus has never been gladder of his ability to hide his emotions from the other Dark Sides. There’s fury coursing through him, hot and seething with guilt, and if Wrath could feel it, if he knew exactly who his words had _reached-_

He would run. 

Janus would _very much_ prefer that he not have the chance to run. 

“He wants me capable of doing my job,” Janus says, shaking with Virgil’s nerves. “He’s not- he’ll _notice_ if you kill me-”

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Wrath says contemptuously. “I’m hardly going to touch you. But you’re coming with me.”

“I have stuff to do,” Janus-as-Virgil protests, but Wrath only scoffs. He yanks Virgil forward, shifting their surroundings with the same violent movement, and Janus falls to the ground and _retches_.

It’s not a faked reaction. The concentrated rage of Wrath’s room makes Virgil sick, native anxiety trying to shove down the feeling to avoid confrontation and giving rise to a host of side effects; on Janus it has a similar effect, anger loosening tongues he wants to still. 

The room is anathema. He has to fight to keep up his _own_ lie, much less sense any of Wrath’s. To this day he isn’t sure of the other Side’s name, and the repulsiveness of his room is more than partially the reason. It’s hard to snoop when you can’t step through the door without vomiting.

Wrath kicks him down with a disgusted glare, then steps away, apparently expecting Virgil not to move. Janus watches him while his back is turned, winded and shaking, and lets his hatred show on his face; it amazes him that Wrath _still_ can’t feel how angry he is, how he wants to twist a knife in his back to hear him scream.

 _You really think Deceit cares enough to stop me,_ Wrath said, because he knew Virgil would believe him. Because he knew Virgil would submit to a beating rather than risk Janus’s rejection or scorn, that he wouldn’t be able to bear yet another Side hating the sight of his face-

Janus manages a shallow, furious breath past the pain in his ribs. If he kills Wrath, he can make the process of his death as long and agonizing as he wants- except, of course, that the other Side will inevitably come back, probably within the week. Wrath would still be in the back of Thomas’s mind, undermining Janus and hurting Virgil where he can’t see. 

Janus needs a more permanent solution. He _knows_ he needs a more permanent solution. But even now, despite everything, he can’t stop thinking of Wrath when Thomas was young, when they were all friends. He can’t convince his instincts that Wrath is a threat worthy of such an extreme reaction.

He needs an override. He needs something in himself to _break_ , however temporarily, so the core of him can see the truth of what Wrath has become. 

He has a feeling the opportunity will present itself sooner rather than later.

Wrath turns back to him, eyes flashing hot as flames, and Janus chokes at the rush of wrongness through his frame. Wrath’s room is a _furnace_ of rage and hate.

The other Side’s lip quirks in a smile that, on any other Side, could almost have been charming. “Here’s an idea,” he says, low and anticipatory. “Since you keep forgetting all the lessons I teach, I’ll give you a little study aid. Something to _remember_ me by.”

The heat of his room surges again, bringing on another bout of vertigo. Janus can’t fight at first, when Wrath jerks forward and pins him down, dragging up his shirt with one clenched hand; then he _has to,_ terror taking over even before he remembers the face he’s wearing, but it’s no use. No matter how he snarls and thrashes, he can’t drag himself upright. Wrath has a foot planted on his stomach to hold him down, and his room is as oppressive as the inside of an oven. Breathing alone is enough to scorch Janus’s lungs.

“What are you _doing?”_ he shrills, some backwards part of him still wondering if Wrath can be redeemed, if he might not go through with whatever he’s planning. It hurts to think of what Janus will have to do to him otherwise. If there’s any other option, any crack to wriggle through and exploit-

Wrath presses down on Janus’s stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. The nausea makes it impossible to focus. “Like I said,” the other Side says with a cruel smile. “A _reminder_. If you hold still for it, I’ll let you out to lick your wounds. What do you say?”

Janus has a moment to process the words, and then there’s something in Wrath’s hand, a long dark rod with an orange glow at one end. 

A _branding iron_. Janus’s mind goes empty with fear. 

“Don’t,” he gasps, “Wrath, please, _don’t_ , I won’t keep messing with you I _promise-_ ”

“Except you will,” Wrath snarls, smile falling away like the lie it was, “because it’s all you _fucking_ do, Anxiety. And I’m getting really sick of it.”

Janus’s instincts beg him to writhe away, to lash out with arms and fangs or snap Wrath’s hands to his mouth. He can still get away. He can run, and keep Virgil as far from Wrath as possible, hold him and Remus close and stalk the edges of the Mindscape so Wrath can _never_ approach-

A lower instinct stops him, curling around his panicked thoughts, and says, soft and sonorous: _He would have done this to Virgil._

Virgil would have been the one pinned and crying, shocked silent. Virgil would have carried the reminder, would have refused to tell Janus what was wrong like always- and yet, through his artifice, Janus made it so Wrath fell into _his_ trap, instead.

The art of war requires sacrifices for the greater victory: soldiers left for dead, suicide missions undertaken with drafted men, whole crews sacrificed as nothing more than distractions.

Janus needs something in himself to _break._

“Please,” he whispers in Virgil’s voice, shaking and crying, readying himself for the pain. “Wrath, _please_ , just let me go.”

_Please don’t make me go through this. Please don’t make me do this to you, when you’re a Side as well, when you used to be nearly tolerable. Please prove me wrong._

“Stop with the whining,” Wrath says, rolling his eyes, and brings the brand down on Janus’s chest.

The world goes _white_.

Janus screams, arching his back and thrashing, and the hot metal sizzles against his flesh. He can feel his skin burning into ridges and cauterized tissue, can smell it cooking in the air. 

It’s more pain than he’s felt in his existence, more than he thought he could feel. It arcs through him like lightning, searing nerves and deadening them, and he _can’t get away,_ no matter what he does he can't even _sink out,_ can't drum up the focus for it.

Wrath is holding him down- is pressing the brand _into_ him, and Janus can’t stop himself screaming, can’t even keep up his disguise. The weight jerks off him with a strangled shout, and Janus yanks himself back, coiling into himself to hide the wound.

There are tears on his face. He’s panting, unbearable heat pulsing through him, aftershocks stealing away coherent thought. 

He’s _branded_. Wrath branded him, like a medieval thief or a head of cattle. And he _would have done it to Virgil._

“Janus?” the other Side chokes, more uncertain than Janus has ever heard him.

He sounds young. Innocent, almost, like they all were- back before Wrath grew too volatile to control, white hot metal with nothing to temper him to use. Before he cooled into something warped and twisted, so nothing Janus did could forge him back into shape.

“Wrath,” Janus says, and lets his control slip, just for a moment, so his rage comes to light. The burn on his chest weeps. He doesn’t think of it, only rises clumsily and draws his own clothes around him, his own scales and monstrous face. “You’ve been making yourself a problem,” he snarls, and tastes the salt of tears on his lips. 

“I haven’t- it’s just _Anxiety_ ,” Wrath says, pale and staring. Janus can’t afford to feel pity, so he doesn’t. “I wouldn’t have done it if I knew it was _you_. Why didn’t you fucking tell me it was you?”

“Oh, Wrath,” Janus says, low and contemptuous. “I’d hope you understand the concept of a lie. I wanted to see what you’d do to _Virgil._ Why would I break my own cover?”

“But I- you let me brand you like a fucking _steer_ ,” Wrath says, horribly bewildered. “You let me kick you, you came to my _room-”_

“I needed the shock,” Janus says, and steps closer. Wrath backs up, face going white. “You see, it’s difficult for me to go against my primary function. I’m meant to preserve the well-being of _every_ Side. When one of those Sides abuses another, I find it curiously difficult to _avenge_ that.”

“Get out of my room,” Wrath says, and Janus laughs. He’s so fucking dizzy. He’s not sure he’s ever been in so much pain, doesn’t know how much longer he can bear it- but the white heat of it scours his mind clean, lets the rest of him surge to the fore.

Wrath would have done this to Anxiety. He wouldn’t even have been _sorry_ , and Virgil would never have told Janus, because Wrath has him convinced that Janus doesn’t care.

That isn’t only hurting Virgil. That’s hindering _Deceit_ , keeping him from performing his duties to Thomas’s mind.

The thought makes a lovely justification.

“What else did you do to him?” Janus asks. “You beat him, that’s clear enough. Have you _lied_ to him, Wrath? Have you done worse?”

“I haven’t done anything he didn’t deserve,” Wrath spits, not a hint of falsehood in him, and Janus cools, the red-hot metal of his rage finally chilling into something he can use.

The sword, coming out of its sheath. Stability, over Self-Preservation.

He can’t stop _shaking_. 

“And I am not doing anything you don’t deserve,” Janus says before the change can wear off, room warping around him, and sinks out before Wrath can realize the danger.

All of a sudden he's in the hallway, and where Wrath’s door used to be- on the other side of Remus’s, flanked by no one at all- is a red patch of empty wall. If he concentrates, he imagines he can hear screaming.

He can’t think or he’ll backtrack, find the thought of sentencing a Side to solitary confinement too cruel to bear. He can’t stop remembering how Wrath used to smile and rage against bullies. He can’t stop thinking of how he used to be their _friend_.

The brand is in the shape of a W, pink and inflamed across Janus’s ribs. He takes it as the reminder it is and sucks in a breath, smoothing the wall where Wrath’s door was to the same uniform gray as the rest.

Then he goes to lick his wounds in private, before Virgil or Remus can see.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: abuse, branding, solitary confinement, impersonation, implied/referenced torture and self-esteem issues, hiding injuries, self-harm (in a way)


End file.
